Page 2 of Axle
A low hum eventually cut through the quiet. I turned my head and spotted a black sedan idling across the lot, windows tinted too dark to see inside. My fingers curled around the package.
Then a white panel van rolled in through the open gate, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. There was no license plate on the front or markings on the sides.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled.
The van eased to a stop near the warehouse. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out. The sun glinted off something in his ear—a headset of some kind.
His gaze locked on me immediately.
“Ashlynn Bahr!” His voice carried, sharp and certain.
My breath caught. I had never used my real name on a job.
Movement flickered at the edge of my vision.
Men stepped out from between the rusting boat hulls and the shadows of the warehouse. They fanned out with practiced ease, boots silent on the cracked asphalt, their weapons angled low, fingers near the triggers.
My pulse spiked as the first man took a step closer, his eyes hard. “Hand over the ledger.”
“The what?” I asked, my voice steady even as my knees felt like they were about to give out.
“Don’t play dumb.” He nodded to one of his men. “Search her.”
I backed up a step, my grip tightening on the package. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Funny,” he shot back. “You have exactly the right face.”
My gaze darted around, looking for gaps. There weren’t many.
Another step, and they’d be close enough to grab me.
I shifted my weight, let my gaze flick past the leader as though I’d heard something behind him. His head turned. That half second was all I needed.
I lunged sideways and kicked hard at a stack of crates leaning against the warehouse wall. They went crashing down, and someone shouted, “Shit!”
I ran.
Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks echoing off the steel and concrete. Splinters and bits of asphalt spat up at my heels. I ducked into the derelict warehouse, weaving between rusted barrels and collapsed scaffolding.
My breathing was uneven, and my pulse was loud in my ears.
I needed my hands free if I was going to have a chance at getting away, but I couldn’t leave the package in the hands of these guys.
That was when I spotted the duffel bag slumped behind an overturned trash can. I crouched, yanked the zipper open, and froze. Bundles of cash filled it, neat stacks bound with crisp bank straps.
If this was my payment, then the person in the red ball cap was probably in deep trouble. But I didn’t have time to worry about them when the boots pounding on the pavement were getting closer.
I shoved the package into the bag, zipped it shut, and slung it over my shoulder.
Another burst of gunfire rang out, closer this time. I bolted toward the far side of the warehouse, my gaze scanning for anything that could get me out of here alive.
I darted through the maze of shadows until I spotted a narrow strip of daylight spilling in from a side door.
Heart hammering, I pressed against the wall and edged closer, peeking through the crack. There was a motorcycleparked beside a dented metal dumpster. And in a stroke of luck I’d forever be grateful for, the key dangled from the ignition.
I’d only driven a dirt bike once before. But that didn’t matter when my life was on the line.
Quickly, I yanked my phone from my pocket and dropped it on the ground, smashing it with my foot. I didn’t want to have anything that could potentially be used to track me.
